The final full day in the suite arrived like the last hand at a high-stakes table—everything already on the felt, nothing left to bluff. Outside, the Vegas sun burned high and merciless; inside, the air was thick with the scent of s*x, sweat, and the faint citrus of hotel shampoo. Samantha woke between them, body a living record of the past forty-eight hours: gold script still shimmering faintly on her lower stomach, throat ringed with purple beneath the choker, breasts and ass mapped in bite marks and handprints that throbbed with every heartbeat. She didn’t speak. She simply slid from the bed and walked to the living room, already wet, already ready.
They found her on her knees in the center of the wide Persian rug.
No preamble. No commands. Just the three of them circling her—Damien,
